


Brittle

by theyhulk



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Brimel, Developing Relationship, Gen, Hugs, It's the ship name y'all we've decided, Kinda, Panic Attacks, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre-Slash, Self-Indulgent, Shippers assemble!, This ship has also taken over my life, This show has taken over my life, oh so self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 02:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21468310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyhulk/pseuds/theyhulk
Summary: JT was still standing there with his arms crossed, thinking back to the first aid training he’d received while deployed and how to translate emergency triage to babysitting skills when Bright started upright, hands clamping onto the arms of the chair and eyes wide enough to show white all around black and bright blue. His gaze flicked wildly from point to point before settling on JT, body wound tight.Brittle, JT had just enough time to think, before he suddenly had an armful of trembling profiler.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright/JT Tarmel
Comments: 60
Kudos: 232





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [batonblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/batonblue/gifts).

> This show has taken over my life, and this pairing has come with it. I've read all the works under the tag (I'm not even kidding) and they're all wonderful.
> 
> I hope everything seems in character, this is my first time writing for either of these nerds.  
A few quick notes that are actually relevant:  
JT refers to Malcolm as 'kid' in his head, probably because of the whole childhood trauma thing everyone and their grandma knows he has, or because he picked it up from Gil, who knows, it just felt right.  
JT also refers to Malcolm with words like 'freak' and 'bastard,' but they aren't sincere, because Malcolm is a lovable twink who can thaw anyone's heart.
> 
> This will have at least one more chapter, but I'm hoping for more than that.  
Finally, I'm dedicating this work to batonblue, because they said they'd cheer me on if I actually wrote this.
> 
> Without further ado.

All things considered, it could be worse. Dani had to deal with him after meth exploded in his face like a flour bag after being shot (after a few too many drinks at Billymark’s after too many late nights, he and Dani had done some experimenting) and she came out in one piece.

JT could manage one sleep deprived beanpole.

Gil had been tracking down a vic’s next of kin, something JT quietly thought was below his status, even as the father figure for the entire goddamn NYPD, when it happened. Bright was absently chewing the corner of his thumb, thousand-yard stare looking right through the pictures of pale, dismembered feet when he collapsed onto the ground like the bones in his legs had turned brittle and finally given out.

JT wouldn’t be at all surprised if the kid had calcium deficiency, given how little he ate. Just the bizarre combination of black coffee and hard candy. JT had long tucked away that little detail: Bright always seemed to have it on his person, and dug it almost frantically out of a hidden pocket inside his jacket to offer like little apologies for his…

Neurosis didn’t even begin to cover it. Like little apologies for his _ everything_. All the gruesomeness that popped up whenever he did, all the arrogance and awkwardness and assumptions that he was the smartest in the room. When it came to serial killers, yeah, sure, he probably was, he had one hell of an insider connection. But not when it came to police work. Just because the kid had gone through the Quantico ringer didn’t mean he knew anything other than how to chop off hands. JT _ still _ thought about that, sometimes at night, staring up at the ceiling when he couldn’t sleep.

Bright. He saw a bomb, _ found _ that bomb, and instead of doing anything a rational person would do, like vacating the building, he saw that axe and though _ oh, perfect! _

The kid didn’t look like his usual psycho self now, laying crumpled on the floor like one of his candy wrappers, all eyes on him. JT couldn’t peg him, couldn’t guess if he would he be thrilled or mortified to be the center of attention right now.

After a full minute of hesitant, uncertain looks exchanged between those in the vicinity, JT rose from his chair with a groan. He’d bite the bullet for now, but he was gonna make sure Gil knew he owed him one. Unless Bright died in his custody. That would complicate things.

For a second, JT was reluctantly, genuinely worried; Bright’s entire body flopped back against JT’s chest like a corpse when he tried to haul the kid up by the armpits. A very light, very bony corpse.

“Christ,” JT ground out, not sure if he was swearing or praying, and maneuvered Bright into the chair he’d just vacated. He gave it two tries to hold Bright’s head up before giving up and promptly looking around for Dani. Or anyone. Naturally, the cops in the immediate vicinity had made it a point to act like nothing had happened, suddenly completely absorbed in the work they were halfassing a minute ago.

“Hey,” He gave Bright’s shoulder a shake, impatience making his voice clipped. Bright didn’t respond, just laid there limp and silent, even his breathing sounding defeated.

Just his luck, JT thought bitterly, straightening with a scowl. Just his luck that the kid’s body would finally give out when only he was around to pick up the pieces. When he came to, JT was going to slip a sedative into his drink. Or just knock him back out and leave him in Gil’s office so someone qualified could take care of him.

If anyone _ was _ qualified to take care of him. Gil could do damage control, at least. JT didn’t think anyone without several degrees in abnormal psychology could do anything more than that.

JT was still standing there with his arms crossed, thinking back to the first aid training he’d received while deployed and how to translate emergency triage to babysitting skills when Bright started upright, hands clamping onto the arms of the chair and eyes wide enough to show white all around black and bright blue. His gaze flicked wildly from point to point before settling on JT, body wound tight.

_ Brittle_, JT had just enough time to think, before he suddenly had an armful of trembling profiler. “Don’t take him,” Bright gasped breathlessly into JT’s neck, fingers like claws clinging to the back of his jacket. “Don’t–I still need him, I still–” Bright broke off with a sound like an animal in pain, a yelp that trailed off into a whimper he muffled into JT’s shoulder, burying his face there.

JT stood in shock, hands automatically raised in front of him in defense, focus on Bright’s tears smeared wet on his neck and though _ oh, fuck, he’s crying_. JT had seen Bright’s hand shake before he clenched his fist in an abortive attempt to hide the tremor, had seen him nearly attack Dani in the throes of a night terror, had seen the naked honesty and almost fear in his eyes when JT had confronted him about the badge. He’d seen Bright charm a venomous snake off Edrisa, talk psychopaths out of shooting him in his know-it-all, sickeningly honest face, and talk with someone else’s blood sprayed across his lips. But he’d never seen him cry.

It felt intrusive, almost embarrassing, which didn’t make a damn bit of sense. _ He _ wasn’t the one falling to pieces over a dream. Even deployed, when they lost good men and women, they didn’t cry. Not like this, not by a longshot. A few tears, maybe, then they moved on. Had to, so the others didn’t die for nothing.

But he could _ feel _ Bright cry. The kid was shaking so hard JT could feel it travel from Bright’s body to his own, all the way through his chest, up into his teeth, almost enough to make them chatter as Bright’s temple knocked against the hinge of his jaw.

People were starting to stare, incapable of pretending they couldn’t hear the pitching, desperate cries of Bright’s sobs. “Goddammit,” JT muttered, miraculously not directly at the kid getting tears and snot on the lapels of his jacket. It was real leather, the jackass.

“Come on, get off.” JT reached around himself to tug at Bright’s fingers, wrestling with the strength they suddenly seemed to possess, like the kid’s stubbornness was bone-deep. Finally jerking them free, JT grabbed for Bright’s wrists to drag him back to the chair. Too late did he remember the way soldiers with PTSD sometimes acted when startled: Bright’s forehead connected with his nose, arms jerking wildly to free themselves from JT’s grip, wingtip shoes peppering his shins with sharp, aimless kicks. Bright fought like an animal trying to free itself, eyes wide with fear but unseeing, those breaths he managed to suck in short and pitchy. “_Let me go!_” He squealed, voice breaking. _ Brittle_.

“Bright. _ Bright!_” JT made another grab, this time wrapping his arms around Bright’s shoulders to pin his arms to his sides before bodily lifting him to drag him, just short of kicking and screaming, into Gil’s office. The blinds shook against the glass of the door when JT slammed it shut behind them, dumping Bright unceremoniously onto the scuffed floor. With one hand, he fumbled for the drawstring; with the other, he pulled the front of his shirt out of his pants to staunch the blood streaming from his nose. It wasn’t broken, but it still hurt like hell.

“What the _ fuck_, Bright?” JT braced a hand on the door for a moment, giving the adrenaline a moment to subside, before turning. “Are you _ trying _ to get someone in the precinct to shoot you? If they keep seeing you _ attack _officers…” He trailed off, words and anger draining from him in an unpleasant swoop that started in his stomach and ended in his feet. Bright had tucked himself into the corner of Gil’s desk and the wall, back bowed like he wanted to retreat beneath it. Both of his hands were in his hair, just holding, not pulling, thank God. JT wasn’t sure where the wave of relief at that realization came from, but he wasn’t going to try and chase it down now.

JT heaved a sigh. There was no walking away from this now.

* * *

It took about fifteen minutes of frustrated, fumbling attempts at calming Bright down before the kid finally came around. His teeth were still chattering and he was still folded in on himself, but his eyes were lucid. Utterly exhausted, but lucid. He lifted his head, took one look at JT, and had the gall to look embarrassed, of all things.

He cleared his throat roughly, eyes meeting JT’s then dropping away then coming back up again and again like JT was an eclipse he was trying not to look at for too long. It made JT’s skin itch, like it did every time Bright turned his profiling thing on him. Like it did every time Bright looked at him like he was trying to pick him apart piece by piece, trying to _ figure him out_.

“Just say it,” he said, at the same moment Bright was saying, “Look, um.” JT stared, raising his eyebrows. Bright flushed, summoning color from somewhere to bring pink blotches to his previously pale face.

“‘Look, um?’” JT prompted when Bright remained silent, lips pursed. “‘Look, um,’ what?”

Bright rubbed a hand down his face and looked aside. “I’m...I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to see that.” He made a ragged noise that sounded like it wanted to be a laugh, hands folding over one another in a rhythm he didn’t seem aware of. “Nobody is. That’s why…” He trailed off, lifting his forearms to bare his wrists. JT squinted at them for a moment, looking for–what, a tattoo that said ‘fragile, handle with care?’ He couldn’t see anything, just the shadows cast by shirt cuffs on blue-veined wrists.

_ Wait_.

Rising from the chair he’d been in since Bright had stopped hyperventilating with a grunt, JT crouched across from the kid, ignoring the way he shied back against the desk. Something else he didn’t seem to realize he was doing. Normally, he didn’t do that. He wasn’t shy about anything. He was a walking NPR broadcast with no off switch.

A walking NPR broadcast who had an impressive rainbow of bruises on his wrists. “Are these supposed to mean something to me?”

Bright looked baffled for a moment before he blinked, forehead crumpling more than usual. He was going to have frown lines over every inch of his face by the time he was forty.

“You don’t,” Bright was saying, only to stop with a quick shake of his head. “No, of course you don’t. Uh, I’m not–I don’t sleep. Much.” No more of that up-down glances, now Bright was straight on staring like he was expecting a specific response. He’d probably written and memorized an algorithm or something to predict his response to anything the kid said.

“Yeah,” JT said, “I gathered.”

“And I don’t sleep _ well_.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know about night terrors, right?”

JT settled onto the floor with a scoff, bracing his hands on his spread knees. “Do you think you’re the first person with PTSD I’ve ever met?”

Bright swooped in like a hawk, eyes sharpening. “What makes you think I have PTSD?”

“What makes you think you’re gonna turn this on me? You were apologizing. Let’s stick with that.” Bright scowled, looking for all the world like JT had just told him Christmas was cancelled, the freak.

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry.” Bright rolled his eyes, shifting to his knees and rising. Predictably, he began to tilt forward immediately, and JT resigned himself to catching the kid a second time. For better or worse, this time Bright’s hands found their way to his shoulders, his eyes clear now with a sort of mischievous light that made JT want to push him right back down to the ground. Bastard.

“I never realized how tall you are,” Bright remarked idly, fingers following the seam of JT’s jacket. “I always thought I was taller.”

“Shut up, Bright, and hands off if you want to keep them.” JT shook him off, careful not to touch his wrists this time. The bruises still left him with more questions than answers, but he was confident that they weren’t questions he wanted to ask. Mostly.

“Wait, wait,” Bright caught him by the shoulder, briefly, and immediately let go. “I, uh.” He gestured at the dried tears on lapels of his jacket with a grimace. Again with the embarrassment, not a shred of remorse. “Sorry about that.” His face lit up suddenly, literally _ lit up_, eyes bright, grinning ear to ear. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

And with an oddly possessive pat on JT’s chest, the kid was gone.

* * *

Two days later, while Bright was on a leave Gil enforced after hearing about what happened, a crisp Gucci leather jacket appeared on JT’s desk, folded impeccably. Fucking _ Gucci_.

On the pocket of the jacket, he discovered quickly, was a police badge sticker, the type they gave to kids on Halloween. JT shook his head, failing to entirely suppress a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He got through about a third of his glass before he found his phone, which had the anticipated number of missed calls from Mother, a few messages from Ainsley he habitually glanced over to make sure they weren’t urgent, and a single text from JT. Malcolm blinked dumbly down at his phone, finger hesitating over the screen. JT had never texted him before. Not even about a case. It was always either Gil or Dani on the rare instances when Malcolm wasn’t on site.
> 
> He’d finished his entire glass and was sitting before he opened the message, pretending the nerves squirming in his stomach was because of the milk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter already? That's very impressive for me, so please don't get your hopes up for quick updates. Who knows, though, with these two. They really have a mind of their own, and the comments y'all have been leaving are adding fuel to the fire, so thank you so much! There will definitely be at least one more chapter to this story.
> 
> This one significantly ramps up the gay, because Malcolm is a poor little twink who needs a real hug.
> 
> Also, he drinks almond milk because he's fancy and sensitive.

The embarrassment faded by the time Mother’s driver dropped him off at home to be replaced by a distant, obsessive curiosity. Every curiosity he had was obsessive. The proof was in the eclectic weapons collection displayed downstairs, containing everything from katanas to the battleaxes he’d bragged to Dani about. He’d never actually thrown them, but he’d definitely been tempted. He was just waiting for the right target.

Not a human target, of course. Of _ course_. Just a nice tree stump or something.

Malcolm bellyflopped onto his bed with a moan, face-down in the pillows. To his knowledge, he’d never actually passed out from sleep deprivation before. He’d passed out for many other reasons. Like having blood taken. Crime scenes didn’t bother him, needles didn’t even bother him. Pressing the replica of the Surgeon’s syringe had been a thrill of adrenaline–_I deserve it_–but not fear. But the sight of his own blood, the reminder of the fragility of his skin, his body, the mind within it, and he was gone.

He was thinking about the texture of leather over the curve of muscle as he began to drift, which transformed into the leathery appearance of the thin skin stretched over the amputated feet, and he was gone.

* * *

He slept a miraculous ten hours and woke up feeling like his head was full of fog. And his body was full of fog. Or cotton, or something. The slight roughness of gauze, of bandages around his hands, those bandages wrapping tight and winding up his arms, up his shoulders, around his neck. Pressing over his mouth, held there with firm, gentle pressure, his father’s cologne and the nauseating sweetness of chloroform.

Malcolm floundered between sleep and awareness, between his sheets, and woke sharply when his wrist knocked hard against the corner of his bedside table. Sitting up sharply with a hiss, he grabbed at it, wincing as his fingers closed around bruises old and new. He let his head fall back against the headboard with a _ thunk_, pressing his tongue to the inside of his teeth to make sure he hadn’t bitten it off. Stupidly, he hadn’t bothered with the restraints or the mouthguard. He hadn’t even thought of them. He was always tired, but he’d never been tired enough to forget them entirely. It would have been better if JT came with him to strap him in, like Dani had.

Malcolm frowned, opening his eyes. Why JT?

It took a moment for the memories to clarify from hazy shapes to the sharp(er) details of yesterday. He remembered…

Malcolm squinted at the light filtering through the room’s curtains, thinking hard. He remembered thinking about the symbolic value of feet–_the killer amputated them before he killed his victims to prove to them they couldn’t escape him no matter how hard they tried_–and then it was his own feet that were gone, and his hands, and his mouth, his entire being paralyzed as the cops led his father out of their home. Their perfect home. Memories he couldn’t escape no matter how hard he tried.

Then he’d suddenly been freed and he lunged forward, grabbing for the soft red of his father’s sweater only to find leather under his fingers instead. The scent of Martin’s cologne fading to the smell of leather and some kind of aftershave he didn’t recognize. Something natural. Who knew JT was a stickler for a skincare routine. But that wasn’t important at the time; what was important was clinging to the anchor he’d found, the fear of being abandoned rising like waves that crashed over his head and threatened to drag him under. Something cracked and the ocean was coming out of _ him_, the salt of his tears burning his eyes, his lungs struggling against nothing.

He wasn’t one for metaphors. He didn’t like froufrou language, or flowery poems, or art therapy. Serial killers didn’t bother with all that. Theirs was a dark obsession, a compulsion, a _ need_. When Malcolm wasn’t working (he was always working), when he wasn’t in that mindset (he was always in that mindset), he liked things that were straight to the point, things that served a purpose.

Like JT. Malcolm knew almost nothing about him, his knee-jerk attempts to pick up on his psyche largely unsuccessful, but he seemed straightforward enough. Took ‘serve and protect’ seriously, especially when it came to his team. Had probably been a drill sergeant's dream. Took orders well, took initiative, took down suspects like a freight train with deadly accuracy. He completed the team’s dynamic. Gil was soft all the way through, Dani was a mix of hard and soft, and JT was just hard.

Or so Malcolm had assumed. But JT had spent a lot of time with him on Gil’s floor, hadn’t retaliated when Malcolm headbutted him, hadn’t shot him on the spot for dirtying his jacket.

God, that jacket. The bulk of it over already broad shoulders. Shoulders that had been very warm.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Malcolm braced one hand on the bedframe to steady himself and scrubbed the other down his face. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a type. Nico’s life had been his first priority, no matter what anyone thought, but he’d be lying to himself if he pretended one of the thoughts in his head upon seeing the dom strapped to the chair wasn’t _ hmm, kind of small. _

He was reminded, bitterly and suddenly, of fleeing a man’s bed after he’d made an idle remark about Malcolm’s fingers in his chest hair: _ Is your dad hairy, too? _

He hadn’t known, but it was unsettling enough that he mentioned it to Dr. Le Deux. She had raised her eyebrows at him, asked _ do you find your father attractive, or do you just miss the intimacy that once existed between the two of you?, _and that was that. He had his answer.

He needed coffee. No, something milder that wouldn’t contribute to the headache he could feel pressing on his sinuses. Almond milk. He needed almond milk.

After wrestling with a shirt and giving up on pants entirely, he padded down the stairs to the kitchen and poured himself a generous glass. Academically, he knew his blood sugar was too low. He also knew ingesting something too much too quickly would make him sick, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. It would give him something to do until Gil let him go back to work. That, and the usual pleading. Malcolm wasn’t one for pride when it came to getting what he wanted.

He got through about a third of his glass before he found his phone, which had the anticipated number of missed calls from Mother, a few messages from Ainsley he habitually glanced over to make sure they weren’t urgent, and a single text from JT. Malcolm blinked dumbly down at his phone, finger hesitating over the screen. JT had never texted him before. Not even about a case. It was always either Gil or Dani on the rare instances when Malcolm wasn’t on site.

He’d finished his entire glass and was sitting before he opened the message, pretending the nerves squirming in his stomach was because of the milk.

_ You good? _

Malcolm frowned, incapable of picturing the words in JT’s voice. He’d never heard him ask that question, to anyone.

The message was from a couple of hours ago, probably just before JT walked into work. That was...weird. All of yesterday had been weird. JT holding him, sitting closer to Malcolm than he’d ever done. Sitting with his legs spread, big hands on his knees. The same hands that had more or less carried him across the bullpen. _ Strong_, Malcolm thought, and made a face at himself. Those were just the kinds of thoughts he should not be having. About JT, or anyone else, because he had enough baggage for two and then some, but especially about JT. A coworker. That could only end in humiliation and maybe a black eye.

_ Never better_, he wrote back, and worried at his bottom lip as he waited for the text to mark as read. If JT was the type to turn on read receipts. On the one hand, he didn’t seem the type to give much attention to text etiquette. On the other, he valued his privacy. Minutes passed without a notification and Malcolm released a sigh through his nose, turning to put his glass in the chronically empty dishwasher. He jumped at the _ ding _ of a notification and lept for his phone, unlocking it successfully after a failed attempt.

_ Good, see you soon _

Malcolm spent the better part of an hour trying to pick apart each of the four words, together and on their own. ‘Good’ as in _ I’m genuinely glad you’re okay_, or ‘good’ as in _ I’m glad this exchange is over_? Was ‘see you soon’ meant to suggest JT was looking forward to seeing him again, or was it a begrudging social nicety, or was it a _ don’t come back until you’ve got your shit together _ definition of ‘soon?’

Malcolm pushed his phone away with a groan and dropped his forehead onto the cool marble of the island counter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JT leveled him with a stare, unblinking, and just as Malcolm’s collar began to feel too tight, he shifted, leaning back to cross his arms over his chest. “I told you I’ve seen people with PTSD before.” His voice was measured, too measured. Someone he knew had PTSD, then. Probably multiple someones. With cases bad enough that Malcolm’s outburst hadn’t shaken him. “You don’t need to apologize to me for that.”
> 
> Malcolm opened his mouth, came up blank, and shut it. This wasn’t fun anymore. Why had he thought it was going to be fun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't stop, guys. These two, I'm telling you.
> 
> I'm playing with the idea of renaming this story 'Gucci,' but I think that would give out the wrong message. Even if it would be hysterical. Malcolm and I have similar senses of humor, I guess.
> 
> Anyway, as before, much love to everyone who kudos and comments–the response has blown me out of the water!
> 
> EDIT 11/21:  
I've decided to mark this one as complete since I feel like the prank war has been resolved, but you can count on more Brimel content from me!

When Bright stepped into the precinct, focus having shifted back to the case at hand after he’d drank too much with his medications (if Mother could day drink when she was stressed, he was allowed to day drink when he was bored) and come to an epiphany: all the feet had the same callouses and they’d all been recovered outdoors. They were all a part of the same recreational activity. More than casual hikers, they knew what they were doing and they did it often. Maybe even together. Malcolm was starting to get some _ Greatest Game _ inklings, and his heart was already beginning to pound as he slid seamlessly back into his consulting role. After exactly fifty six _ entire _ hours away, he was practically giddy to get back to work.

So much so that he almost forgot about his prank until he saw that JT was still wearing his old jacket. Malcolm pressed his lips together, hard, to keep from smiling. It wasn’t going to be nearly as satisfying if his composure cracked now.

He let a few hours drift by before making it a point to cross paths. It wasn’t hard to submerge himself. Reviewing the photographs again to match the callouses with different types of shoes wasn’t the most glamorous thing he’d ever done, but the glee of his return made it sacred. It was entirely likely he’d end up with his own pair of every hobby shoe that was inevitably going to be advertised on his laptop over the next few days out of sheer curiosity. He didn’t even care about his weapons as a material collection, he’d just picked up a book about the evolution of the sword one day and things had spiraled from there. _ Or earlier than that_, Dr. Witly’s voice whispered from his cell miles away, from the space he always occupied in Malcolm’s brain every waking moment, _ every boy needs a good knife. _

_ No_. Malcolm imagined putting on noise cancelling headphones to block out that voice, something Dr. Le Deux had worked with him on. Sensory imagery as a coping technique. Malcolm couldn’t shut Dr. Witly out, his night terrors were proof of that. And trying to exorcise him was, as Dr. Le Deux had put it, _ going in the wrong direction. It’s too violent, and that’s the opposite of what we’re trying to achieve here. _ So the most effective thing to do was block it off if he could, distract himself doing something else.

Like heckling detectives.

He made sure he ran into JT during his break; if he was working, he wouldn’t want to be disturbed. He didn’t want to be disturbed either way, but better to bother him when he wasn’t actively working to save lives. And whatnot.

“Didn’t like my jacket?” He asked, beginning with half his back to the detective, ostensibly making himself a cup of coffee. It wasn’t _ entirely _ ostensible, since he was due for lunch, but it was too good a position to take up. Impeccable planning. _ Dad would be proud of you_, a smug thought informed him.

_ Shut up_, Malcolm said back.

“It was Gucci, Bright.” JT hardly spared a glance from the newspaper he was holding captive between his thumb and four fingers spread across the back to keep it upright. His eyes weren’t moving slowly enough to indicate he was actually reading. Either he was just skimming or trying unsuccessfully to ignoring him.

“Exactly!” Bubbles of nervous, giddy energy floated pleasantly in Malcolm’s chest, making him feel light. Untouchable, like he always did when he swayed on the edge of banter and argument. “It’s Gucci! You strike me as the type of guy who enjoys the finer things in life.” He held up a hand before JT could interject, his mouth already open and expression already turning stormy, “I’m not profiling you. If I’m wrong, maybe you need to be _ introduced _ to the finer things in life.” He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep laughter at bay. Picturing JT in that jacket had been one of the things that kept him sane over his leave, but it was so much easier to do it now that the detective was in the room with him. “Either way, Gucci was the obvious answer.”

JT released his hold on the newspaper and crossed his arms over it instead, elbows unapologetically on the table in a way Mother would _ hate_. “The obvious answer to what, Bright?” His voice was measured, almost patient, but his eyes…

_ Say it_, they said, _ I want to see if you _can.

And the bubbles were gone, replaced by a hollow sense of well-worn embarrassment. _ Don’t apologize for your anxiety, Malcolm, _ Dr. Le Deux had practically drilled into him, _ don’t apologize for what you need. _

“How to apologize.”

JT shifted, not looking nearly as smug _ or _ as irritated as Malcolm had been expecting. He seemed to soften, almost, which was startling enough that Malcolm’s first response was to glance at the nearest exit and wonder how far of a head start he could get before JT caught up. His legs were longer, but if Malcolm was quick–

“Jesus, Bright, sit down before you pass out again.” The chair scraped across the floor as JT nudged it out from under the table with his foot, a touch of exasperation darkening his expression. It was more familiar that way, but only by a little. Malcolm prepared himself to bristle, to reject pity, but that wasn’t what was on JT’s face. Malcolm frowned and sat.

JT leveled him with a stare, unblinking, and just as Malcolm’s collar began to feel too tight, he shifted, leaning back to cross his arms over his chest. “I told you I’ve seen people with PTSD before.” His voice was measured, _ too _ measured. Someone he knew had PTSD, then. Probably multiple someones. With cases bad enough that Malcolm’s outburst hadn’t shaken him. “You don’t need to apologize to me for that.”

Malcolm opened his mouth, came up blank, and shut it. This wasn’t fun anymore. Why had he thought it was going to be fun?

“Well–alright, but let me take care of the dry cleaning, at least.”

JT scoffed, looking almost entertained, and part of the knot in Malcolm’s chest untangled and melted away. “It’s leather, Bright, it washes off easy. That thing barely has any blood stains, and you think I’m worried you wiped your nose on it? You don’t need to worry about it.” His expression shifted again, and suddenly he wasn’t talking about the jacket. “Seriously.”

Malcolm blinked, not sure how it was possible for him to feel embarrassed, relieved, incredulous, and a bit infatuated all at once. He could his face begin to heat and desperately willed it away, all the while knowing it was only worsening at JT’s slight, knowing smile. “I got something for you, too,” He said after a moment’s huffed laughter, planting his hands on the table and standing. “I couldn’t drop _ eight grand _ on it, but you could definitely use it.” He returned a moment later, brandishing an unopened tissuebox.

Malcolm giggled before he could stop himself, and was halfway to feeling petrified about the sound when JT joined in with a single laugh from his belly, an actual laugh, a real one. It was the most emotion of any kind Malcolm could remember seeing on him, and though it vanished quickly, the smile suited him.

**Author's Note:**

> A little plug: batonblue made a Brimel discord, so if you want to talk about this magnificent ship, feel free to join us at https://discordapp.com/channels/647677286509969408/647677286509969411.


End file.
